


Effects

by FamousWolf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamousWolf/pseuds/FamousWolf
Summary: Edward Nygma is slipping.  To keep himself out of prison after a botched robbery, he sells out the work of Ivy and Scarecrow as they attempt to create a new and alluring toxin.  When they capture him and threaten to turn him into their newest lab rat, a daring rescue alters the course of a particularly rough day.





	1. Of Toxic Duality

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Edward had struggled enough that the binding on his wrists had begun to leave blisters.  The rope was waxy, a thin but dense material that almost seemed to tighten around him the more he moved, as if it were alive.  The new burn on his wrists was a welcome distraction from the throbbing of his temples, his headache induced by a wicked trifecta: blunt force trauma, a too-tight blindfold, and the bickering of his captors. 

"He offers nothing but annoyance, an irritating buzz in the face of those who stand to make a difference.  He should be exterminated like the insect he is," a slow, deep voice suggested.  Ed recognized it immediately, though speaking through a respirator tended to give away one's identity.  He wanted to grunt through his gag to announce that he'd figured it out, but decided to try a new approach: he kept quiet.

"Perhaps.  But even the smallest insects have a part to play," replied the silky voice that explained his organic bindings: Ivy.  "Let's see how our little mixture is coming along."

A brief silence passed, pregnant with possibility and risks Edward hadn't known he'd taken.  He hadn't realized his head was shaking in protest until cool hands took hold of his jaw and stopped it.  Ivy sat on his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck for balance, dragging a long fingernail along the shell of his ear.  He winced as the edge of the metal chair dug into the backs of his thighs under her weight.

"We lost our lab, Edward.  We had made such progress, unlocked something beautiful, produced our first batches, ready to be tested, so very nearly ready to be released.  Our work could do so much good.  We could bypass years of therapy with that gas, you know.  Did you even know what it was that you destroyed?"

He could guess it was something wildly dangerous, something with the potential to tear through people's minds and leave them twisting in agony.  Such was Scarecrow's calling card.  It was Ivy's involvement that confused him.  They had never cared for one another, each immune to the other's chemical wiles. 

"Crane can unlock the subconscious, and you know how I can help people access their own centers of attraction.  Imagine what could happen if we joined forces...We could dig in, Eddie, and find your deepest desires.  We could learn what it is that people truly want, what they long for, so that they could stop feeling so unfulfilled, so lost.  So that they could find purpose."

It didn't matter that his eyes were covered; he rolled them anyway.  There was no way such a toxin would go unweaponized in their hands.  He didn't have to wait long to hear how.

"Or, for those who have lost sight of where they stand in this world," she continued, her fingers trailing to the base of his neck and wrapping around it, tightening steadily, "we could simply use it to reveal what they want most so that we could find it, bring them face-to-face with it, and then destroy it before them.  Imagine the power."

Her grip loosened, and she pushed herself up.  He found her style of manipulation repulsive, and yet his body tried to lean toward her as she left.  Glass clinked further away, vials and test tubes making contact under unnaturally steady hands. 

Beside him, Ivy sighed.  "You took that away from us.  In a thoughtless attempt to save yourself, you just handed it all over to Gotham's finest.  You can't think they were careful, Eddie.  You can't possibly think they preserved our work.  You're smarter than that.  No, thanks to your selfishness, it's all gone..."  She paused, and his stomach turned in anticipation just before she finished her thought.  "Well, almost."

The words were accompanied by the signature pinch of an injection to his neck.  The needle was small, but his attempt to jerk away caused it to puncture him twice before he felt the sting of chemicals slipping beneath his skin. 

"Take a deep breath.  Let it figure you out.  You'll know when you're ready.  You'll know what you can't live without, and you'll simply have to tell someone.  You can tell me."

In his most volatile moments, when he needed to re-tether himself to his body, Edward turned to his senses.  He tried to account for them all, tested them out, took notes on their work.  Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, he believed that simply checking the systems would keep them from turning on him.  So he ran the checklist, trying to balance out the losses: it was okay that he couldn't move, so long as he could still feel the burn of straining, restricted muscles.  He could smell traces of Ivy's signature perfume; he could taste the blood drying at the corner of his mouth from his fruitless scuffle against Crane's hired hands, but took pride in the fact that the blood was not his own.  It was fine that he couldn't see, so long as he could hear the shifting postures of his impatient captors.  But those grew faint, the air at his ears turning thick and foggy.  He soon heard Ivy speak to Crane, but couldn't make out the words over the sound of his own pulse.  The combination of blindness and deafness was too much; he was too vulnerable to attack, too powerless over his own body to care about saving it. 

"It's working, isn't it?  It's okay," Ivy said directly into his ear, the sound too close for comfort.  "You must be just bursting with the pressure to talk, so..."  Her fingers connected with his cheek and slid toward the bindings across his jaw.

"And that's supposed to be different?" a voice rang out from far behind him, echoing off what must have been bare walls.  "He never _stops_ talking.  You must know that: you gagged him."

The room went silent again, filling with a palpable tension as Ivy and Crane took stock of their surroundings. 

"Oswald?" Edward tried to ask through the gag. 

No response.  The quiet seemed to last for years, throwing Edward's sense of hearing into question, rattling his nerves all over again as he waited for some kind of response, some indication that he hadn't hallucinated a voice.  He wanted to scream just to make himself hear something, but in the moment he filled his lungs, a familiar voice rang out, clear as a bell, the antidote to his adrenaline overdose.

"You want him to tell you what he wants most?  You're going to be disappointed."

Ivy groaned at the interruption and walked away, her voice traveling behind Ed's back.  "Oh, please.  Don't you have a bar to run?"  The jab went ignored.

"There's nothing in there.  Cut him open and there's just a rat's nest of opposing impulses.  'Kiss her, no, kill her.  Laugh it off, no, shoot 'em up.  Stand by him, no, betray him.'  If you're looking for some psychic foundation to hack into...you could've picked a more stable subject."

Ed's brow furrowed.  "Oswald!" he tried again, trying to convince the man to take some real action.  

"It sounds like you're volunteering," Crane said.  Ed wanted to roll his eyes at the idea.  _Stable.  Sure..._

"I'd love to.  Too bad you just pumped the last of your batch into the great green void."

"What do you want, Cobblepot?" Ivy sighed, bored with the intrusion.

"I'm taking him off your hands," Oswald replied.  Ed could hear the tight smile in his voice.  It was typically a chilling sound, but at this moment, he found it comforting, a dose of the familiar, another thin thread tying him to reality.

"Ugh.  Why?  You just said there was nothing to him," Ivy replied as her fingers closed over Edward's shoulder.  "Especially now that he's fighting our toxin.  He's a 'void.'"

Ed first heard the sound of Oswald's single chuckle, then the sound of Ivy's disappointed exhale. 

"Really, Oswald?  A gun?  We're peaceful people."

"Oh, please.  You're barely _people_ at all."

A gun fired, glass shattered, and Edward shrank as much as he could, lowering his head to his chest to become a smaller target. 

"Oswald?!" his muted voice tried again, this time simply wanting to find him in the room, to calculate the directions of the flying bullets and determine if he might catch any of them himself. 

Gunfire deafened him to the footsteps that approached, so he flinched when a cool hand gripped his wrist and pulled, drawing the vines taut so that a thin blade could slice through them.  His arms loosened once free, and a fresh ache shot through his shoulders.  His hands went first to his mouth, yanking out the bitter vines as the knife went to work on the ones around his shins binding him to the chair.  He reached for the blindfold and sighed.  No wonder his head hurt so much: Ivy's vines had tightened into all the tenderest places on his face, bridging his nose, pressing into his temples.  He grunted as he scratched at them, fingers helpless against the organic blind. 

"Just wait.  I'll get it," Oswald told him.  His pulse quickened at being addressed directly, and a new urgency fired through him.  He wanted to _see_.  He wanted to find his way out of this building, but even more than that, he wanted to see Oswald cutting him free, taking down those who threatened him, pulling him to safety.

His calves separated from the metal chair legs and a hand dug into his underarm and forced him up.  He couldn't help himself: he laughed. 

"You're rescuing me!" Edward announced, suddenly unconcerned with the danger of the environment. 

"Astute as ever," Oswald replied, taking hold of a sore wrist and leading him along the edge of the room, through a hallway echoing with the last shots fired between uneven factions.  Edward was surprised it took as long as it did for Oswald's men to clear the room.  The sounds followed them into a cramped stairwell, and as Oswald tried to quietly guide a blind man down two flights of stairs, Edward's laughter only doubled in intensity.  He was giddy with the absurdity of the situation, and it tickled him more every time his foot slipped from a tread.  He ricocheted around the corners, running into Oswald more than once, eventually earning a murmured, "My god, why did I decide to do this?"

He knew he'd stepped outside when the frigid air stung the scrapes on his raw skin.  He was grateful for the limited exposure to the weather: only a few steps from the building, Oswald pushed his head down and guided him into the back of a car.

Ed felt the car make two sharp turns before the ride smoothed out.  Only then did Oswald speak again, and this time, his voice was much lower, quiet and steady.

"Now sit still.  I don't want your blood on the seats." 

Ed smiled, but he followed the order and kept still as Oswald's fingertips traced the vines around his head, looking for a loose spot.  He seemed to find one and tried to slip the tip of his blade beneath it, but as he did so, the pressure increased at Ed's temples and he winced, jaw dropping with the pain.  The hands pulled away in an instant.

"God, what was that?!"

Ed shook his head.  "I'm sorry!  It just tightened...oh my," he uttered, catching his breath. 

"Just...we'll wait.  Let's not do this in a moving vehicle." 

Ed nodded and tentatively reached toward his eyes.  Before he could make contact, though, Oswald pulled his hand down. 

"Don't," he said with a surprising softness.  "We don't want to make it worse.  We'll be there soon enough."

"Sorry," Ed whispered.  He thought he felt Oswald's grip on his hand tighten before it released, leaving him an island in the backseat.  Eventually, after a particularly heavy sigh, Oswald spoke again. 

"Do you want to tell me what your plan was back there?  What was the escape that I interrupted?  It must have been something spectacular, one man against two maniacs and their little army."

Ed's instinct was to laugh yet again, to use a chuckle to slip out of the uncomfortable realization that he'd had no plan, that he was as likely to die in that warehouse or apartment building or office complex--he didn't even know where he'd been held.  It was an embarrassing admission, and laughing it off would have worked with anyone else at his side.  But something about the tone of Oswald's question kept the laugh from bubbling out of him.  His impending death suddenly didn't seem so funny.  He held his tongue for the third time.

"I see.  I'm to believe you didn't see this coming from the second you sold them out?"

Ed didn't respond.  His stillness seemed to answer for him.

"Oh," Oswald said.  "That's...concerning." 

Edward agreed.

 

 


	2. Of Coming Home

Twenty minutes passed before firm hands had led Ed through what he quickly recognized as the Van Dahl mansion. He knew it by the sound of Oswald's uneven gait clicking and shuffling from marble floors to wooden ones, falling silent on the plush rug in front of the familiar sofa upon which he had been set. Oswald thanked his driver for his assistance, but waited for a far door to latch closed before speaking to Ed. By this time, his head was pounding, screaming for release from the pressure of the blind.

"Let's give this another shot, shall we?" Oswald suggested. "I'm going to work quickly, before it can move again."

Ed nodded and braced himself. Before he could even suggest an approach, Oswald dug two fingers into the thin gap between Ed's temple and eye socket, pulled the thin vines with enough force to jerk his head to the side, and sliced through them, blade moving in toward Ed's face. He couldn't see it, but he knew this was the only direction that would work, and he could hardly feign surprise when the tip of the knife sliced shallowly through the side of his cheek. He sucked in a breath at the sting, but the immediate dispersion of his headache put him in a forgiving mood. He touched his fingertips to his eyelids tentatively, testing for thorns, scratches, he didn't know exactly what. His vision came back slowly, through a series of blinks and squints.

A quick sigh gave him the resolve to finally look to his left, to meet Oswald's gaze, but when he tried, his heart sank. He knew the shapes of Oswald's face, he recognized the angles and shadows as they flickered in the firelight, but the features were fuzzy, unfocused. Without his glasses, Ed couldn't quite catch all the sharp lines that made Oswald what he was. He knew Oswald was assessing him, so he offered a half-smile, a heartless attempt at saying he was fine.

Oswald saw through it.

"Something's wrong."

Ed shook his head and looked down at his hands. He started cleaning flecks of dirt from his knuckles but was quickly distracted by the blisters on his wrists. They looked as wicked as they felt.

"Oh," Oswald chirped, raising a finger in realization. He nodded toward the sideboard near the arched entryway. "They're in the table. The right drawer."

Only once Ed had pushed himself up and crossed behind the sofa did Oswald add quietly, "One of the many articles you left behind. You don't pack as thoroughly as I would expect."

Ed pulled open the shallow wooden drawer, revealing a single pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He picked them up, slid them on, and looked up into the massive mirror above the table. His clothes were a mess, as he expected, buttons having popped at the stress of being jerked around by rough hired hands. But the thin line of blood at his cheekbone surprised him. He chuckled and looked at the reflection of Oswald's back.

"You cut me!" he said, his first words since he'd entered the mansion.

Oswald didn't turn. "Oh, no. I am terribly sorry," he said flatly, making Ed laugh to himself again.

"I think their experiment was a failure.  All I felt like I wanted was for those things to be off my face, and now...I feel fine."

"Of course you do.  It was saline.  They were just trying to frighten you, Ed."

Ed licked his finger and wiped at a small scrape at his eyebrow.  "Well, I look awful," he said to no one in particular.

"You're alive. Come sit, Ed."

He did as he was told and made his way back to the sofa. As he sat, he rocked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen himself up, to work his way out of his mental fog and back into his body. But then he turned and finally looked, finally saw Oswald looking at him, nearly burning a hole through him.

"Care to explain yourself?" Oswald finally said, bursting the loaded silence that had filled the space between them.

Ed shook his head and sighed a laugh. "What does that mean?"

Oswald's eyes narrowed as he took a long breath. As a second silence slipped into the room, Ed started to wonder if this would be the one time that Oswald was full of patience, all too willing to hold him over the fire and watch him squirm.

"I was caught off guard," Ed added, shrugging. "I'm not proud of that."

Oswald's eyebrows flicked upward, but he did not respond.

"I was leaving the library, actually. I was working there, temporarily, piecing together the routes of a fleet of armored trucks that run through Miagani--"

Oswald's lips pursed as he raised a finger, stopping Edward's spiral. "Who are you working for?" he asked, voice low and steady.

Edward thought a moment, feeling out the question for all the its wrong answers. If there was a trick to it, he wasn't seeing it. That bothered him.

"No one. Myself."

"Ah. The last I'd heard, an impressive sum had been lifted from the vaults of three banks in Otisburg without ever reaching the Narrows. Tell me, do you really need money, Ed?"

This felt even more like a trap, but something about  Oswald's sustained gaze made him want to walk right into it.

He shook his head, and Oswald nodded. Edward started to fill the space that followed.

"I mean, I don't need it yet. I've been studying robotics, though, and I think that, with some time, I could actually build--"

"The GCPD had you on your last robbery, isn't that right? They were waiting for you when you came out? Why do you think that is?"

Ed sniffed and unnecessarily adjusted his glasses on his nose.

"I have some theories," Oswald continued, answering his own question. "Maybe it was the green paint you used on the security cameras at the first location, or the fact that you didn't even bother with them at the second, eagerly offering up not just evidence of your work, but an _announcement_ of where you were headed next."

"Yes, but I knew I could--"

"Get past the security? Of course you could. And you did, didn't you?" Oswald said, smiling with an amusement that was hard to decipher. He seemed genuinely baffled by Edward's choices, yet not altogether disappointed by them.

"I did get _in_."

They stared at each other, neither bothering to finish the thought: _he just didn't get out_. Oswald laughed again, and Ed's eyes fell.

"I learned about the dangers of hubris long ago, and...I just don't see that here. I do not see you needing to prove anything to the police, to Gordon, to the thugs and miscreants of the Narrows. So why the risky behavior, I ask myself. Why throw yourself into the public eye--and cross-hairs-- when you're working alone? Whose attention are you seeking?"

Ed took a deep breath through his nose, and for a moment, wondered if Ivy's injection might actually have had some kind of placebo effect on him: his neck had warmed and his stomach felt light with something like anticipation.

"And then, to turn in Crane and Ivy...talk about 'out of the frying pan...'"

"But now out of the fire, too," Ed heard himself say. His gaze darted up from his hands, meeting Oswald's wide eyes.

"Think so, do you?"

A fresh wave of heat rushed to Edward's ears at the smile in Oswald's voice. He recognized at this point that Oswald's interrogation had simply served to tie conversational strings. Now he was starting to pull them. Ed was already caught, here in the lair of the fallen mayor, the phoenix of a crime lord, the most cunning man he knew. But even now, when he saw the machinations at work, Ed found himself wanting to be manipulated.  He rolled his eyes and played along.

"You're trying to turn it into, what, a cry for help?"

"No, no.  You haven't needed anyone's help for a long time." Oswald replied, scowling at the suggestion. "You've found your way alone.  Though it does seem that you still needed the right audience. Someone to appreciate your work, to encourage your development. Someone who could understand you without feeling threatened by you."

"I don't scare you?"

Oswald's brow quirked up. "I didn't say that. You don't _threaten_ me. I've seen what happens when you try to reject whatever it is that I inspire in you, deep down under your twisted banners of honor and justice. I know what happens when you suppress it. I get shot," he said with a tone so matter-of-fact that Edward was able to sidestep any shame at the mention of his attempt on Oswald's life. " _That_ end of the spectrum doesn't scare me."

The fire crackled behind Edward, a gentle accompaniment to the cogs turning in his head. He'd been led to an inevitable question and failed to out-maneuver Oswald. At this point, he could derail the conversation by resorting to a non sequitur or simply letting it choke out in silence. Or he could take the bait.

"What _does_ scare you, then?" he finally asked, forgiving himself for wanting to give in just a little. But addressing the subject of fear head-on earned him a spine-rattling shiver as Oswald moved more quickly and smoothly than he'd thought possible, delivering his answer to the six inches of space left between his lips and Ed's neck. His voice was a stream of cool dark water as it poured across sensitive skin.

"What might happen if you stop letting the world's opinion of you dictate what you should be? You fill your days proving everyone's intellectual inferiority as if that will satisfy the hunger eroding you from the inside. As if ensuring we all know just how brilliant you are will set everything right for you. But what might become of you if you turned your attention inward, took a good look at that specific parching thirst, and dedicated your energy to quenching it in earnest. If you just let yourself be what _you_ want to be...if you served yourself as intently as you serve your image, if instead of taking what they want you to take, you just took what _you_ wanted...ooh, the thought of it has kept me up at night."

Edward tried to swallow, but found that his throat had gone dry.  He smiled at the response, how it threatened to prove Oswald's theory. 

"And _you_ must know what I want."

"You've denied nothing.  I saw your signs.  I saved your life.  I brought you here.  How am I doing so far?"

"Why concern yourself with what I want?" Ed said, turning his head to face Oswald without pulling back, leaving their noses at risk to graze with the smallest shift in posture.

Oswald's brow furrowed before he answered.  "Don't stoop to such games.  Playing dumb doesn't suit you."

He was right: it was an answer Ed already knew.  Oswald had a history of ricocheting between tenderness and violence that added up to a single, undeniable truth: he cared deeply for Edward, for better or worse.  Even the depths of his hatred were evidence of his obsession.  Long ago, Edward had slipped like a splinter under Oswald's skin and dwelt there, a new and often uncomfortable part of the man, one that promised a removal too painful to bear.  At times, it was masochistic, an intentional press on the injury of their broken relationship just to see how much it still hurt.  At times, it was something else.

Here, even with his face freshly sliced by Oswald's knife, Edward knew they did not want to hurt each other.  So he went for the something else.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips tentatively to Oswald's, almost too focused on noting the reaction to close his eyes.  In the approach, he'd briefly wondered if Oswald would sigh or seize up or simply buckle at his initiative, if he'd wrap his arms around Ed's neck and pull him closer or play cold and indifferent, aiming for Edward's remaining insecurities with a non-reaction.  But when Edward felt an expressive mouth draw into a smile against his own, his questions quieted just long enough for him to really shut out those voices Oswald had accused him of over-heeding.  The boundaries of his universe shrank inward the deeper he pressed against Oswald's willing mouth, and when a deep sigh brushed against his cheek, the world itself was blotted out, reduced to one long sofa and the bodies on it.

He pushed further, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he rotated to cup Oswald's face, both out of tenderness and a desire to keep him in place, to hold him to this moment, keep him from pulling away, from acting on whatever cruel instincts might cause him to shoot this down and let it die as a punishment for the betrayal for which he'd seemed too forgiving.

But Oswald must have felt a similar pull, and when his fingers slid across Ed's jaw, Ed risked cutting off the kiss to lean into them, cupping them with his own hand and relishing the adoration they conveyed, the only praise and appreciation he wanted now.

They separated by only an inch to catch their breath and recalibrate, but even this suddenly felt too far away.  At the bottom of his vision, he saw Oswald tip his chin upward, forward just slightly, eager and cautious at the same time, or perhaps unaware of his own subtle pursuit of Edward's lips.  And in the urge to lower his head in return, to meet again the middle, he realized that a fog had parted, and he noticed just how quiet it truly was.

Of course, as his theory came into focus, it demanded retesting and confirmation, so he dipped again into the enveloping warmth of Oswald's kiss and listened.  What he heard was another deep sigh of a man getting just what he wants, a clock ticking on a mantle, and for just a moment when Oswald's fingers curled into claws digging into his wild hair, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.  And still, quiet.

He pulled back and stood up, shocking Oswald into an expression of disbelief and confusion. 

"What's wrong?  Why-- what-- I don't--" he stuttered, reaching for the arm of the couch to push himself up, too.  Ed gestured with his hands, palms out to reassure Oswald, that this was just a brief pause, another quick systems check. 

"I'll be right back," he muttered, turning toward the hall and taking a pair of long strides before spinning on his heels and collecting one last piece of data for his test: he returned to the side of the sofa and held the sides of Oswald's face, planting a deep, parted-lip kiss on his half-open-in-question mouth, and then returned to his path toward the hall, footsteps quick and intent as ever until, at the far end of the corridor, the bathroom door latched closed behind him.  He turned on the tap, ran cold water until it warmed--for fear of cooling a fever he didn't want to lose--and splashed it over his face, washing his hands twice with a faint eucalyptus soap. 

He took the black hand towel from the wall and pressed it to his face, rising across from the mirror and taking a long breath before lowering the towel to look into it. 

He couldn't have said exactly what he expected to see, but what looked back at him still surprised him: a single reflection, holding a towel to its chin with fingers that nearly trembled.

"Where are you..." he asked it, waiting for the appearance of a second visage, one that would cackle at him and wring the warmth from his body.  But as seconds ticked by, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  He was alone.  All was quiet.

Upon reflection, he may have realized that there was no need for splitting when both halves were getting what they wanted, but for now, he was content with his sense of control.  It empowered him, smoothed away the remaining chinks his pride had earned in his capture. 

As he reached to re-hang the towel, he caught sight of the thin cut at his cheekbone threatening to bleed at the wrong facial expression.  It sent a thrill through him, a heat rising in his stomach that drove him out of the bathroom and back down the hall. 

Oswald was standing near the fireplace when Edward turned the corner, staring into the flames.  His head quirked just slightly at the sound of Edward's entrance.

"Say it again, Oswald," Edward said, a telling gravel in his voice that made Oswald's lips flicker into a smirk as he turned to face him. 

"I gave it away for free the first time. This time...you earn it."

Ed crossed the floor in record few strides, and Oswald lowered his chin as he watched him approach, steeling himself for a welcome, if unpredictable, attack.  When Edward crashed into him, knocking him back against the cool wall and devouring his lips with new intensity, Oswald's wordless groans vibrated out through the depths of his throat, a necessary expulsion of energy that otherwise threatened combustion.

Edward's hands found Oswald's jaw and slid down from there, traveling heavily over the planes and dips of Oswald's chest, then stomach, then sides, then hips.  Ever quick to catch a gist, Oswald wrapped his arms around Edward's neck, needy for both proximity and support.  Their bodies were fully pressed together at this point, and it still wasn't enough.

Ed lowered his hands further, wrapping them around the backs of Oswald's thighs and lifting him with shocking ease, forcing legs to lock around him as he swallowed down Oswald's yelp of surprise.  They took a moment to revel in the contact, cheeks touching as they caught their breath and fed the fires growing in their cores. 

"So help me if you drop me," Oswald said, cutting the tension and letting them both laugh at their intensity.  Edward tightened his grip and ground his hips forward, turning Oswald's easy smile into a shaky gasp.  He found he quite liked the sound of catching Oswald off guard, so he pushed past the barrier of Oswald's starched white shirt collar and sank his teeth more deeply into his neck, his lips finding a strong pulse as he was rewarded with another curl inward, another desperate search for friction.  He let out a low growl himself when Oswald risked his own stability to wind his fingers into Edward's hair and pull, exposing the length of his neck so that the favor could be returned.

 Something about Oswald's teeth had always fascinated Edward.  They were a covert status marker, a sign that, at least for a while, Oswald had made it, earned access to the cosmetic corrections of the rich and famous.  And they gleamed, bright and sharp in his mouth as it ordered the power plays that made and broke his reign of the underworld.  It would be these teeth, welcome fangs dragging him down the line between pain and pleasure, that would undo Edward.  Of that he was certain.

  He was letting those teeth scratch and scrape along the lines of his carotid arteries while his own hands itched to slip loose the countless buttons keeping Oswald cloaked in a suit of signature ornateness.  It didn't take long for his fingers to grow weary of their assignment, so he carefully slid them out from under Oswald's thighs, the heat in his belly flaring when he realized that Oswald was holding himself up. 

"I keep realizing over and over that you're stronger than I thought..." Ed confessed, sighing heavily as a low chuckle vibrated through Oswald's lips into his throat.

"Maybe," Oswald said, voice whisper-quiet as Edward took a quick scan of his suit, seeking the most efficient starting point.  He opted for the black tie crossed over Oswald's neck, tucked safely beneath the wings of his collar, fastened with a single ruby pin.  He reached for that glittering gem, but Oswald's left leg slid down his thigh, dropping back to the floor, balancing carefully as his right did the same. 

"No," he said, pressing his palm over Ed's fingertips.  "Not here."


	3. Of Absolution

The journey to the master suite had hardly slowed Edward's pulse. He'd moved at Oswald's pace, a single step behind him, each footfall accompanied by a grin of disbelief, a laugh to himself at just how _right_ it felt to be led into the massive bedroom, quietly directed to make himself comfortable on the bed while Oswald stopped by a burgundy chaise to remove his own tie, more delicately, careful to preserve the integrity of the fabric, lying it across the top of the backrest, making a show of his work as Ed watched, stretched face-up over the duvet, propped on his elbows. This was the first noticeable split in impulse for Edward: part of him wanted to momentarily leave the bed only to drag Oswald back with him; part of him wanted to lie still and graciously take what was already being offered. He wanted to be a good audience; he wanted to tear the layers away himself.  
  
Oswald went on uninterrupted, slipping off his suit jacket and draping it next to the tie, never once looking toward the bed, ignoring the approval written all over Ed's helpless biting of his lower lip.  
It was a magic act, this particular disrobing, as with each piece removed--tie, jacket, vest, shoes, belt-- Oswald somehow shrank and grew at the same time. Without the suit that he wore like armor, his arms lost their bulk and turned to lean, straight lines moving with purpose, angling nicely in the stark white sleeves that he seemed to be saving for Edward. The shirt hugged him, defined a waist more narrow than he allowed the world to see. Edward pushed himself up, slid back to the end of the bed, finally earning Oswald's attention as he moved. Oswald took the four steps to the foot of the bed slowly, holding Ed's gaze and working to keep his stride as even as he could, as if something as superficial as an uneven gait could make Edward backpedal.  
He'd been polite, Edward told himself: he'd sat still, allowed Oswald the thrill of saving his life, allowed him to dissect his recent activity and shine an embarrassing light on it, labeling him _desperate_ and _needy_. If it was true, he figured, he was going to behave as such.  
  
The second Oswald came close enough, Edward reached for him, or rather, reached for his shirt and tore it open, pearl buttons skittering across the floor as Oswald feigned a gasp but arched an eyebrow, exhaling as warm hands slid beneath his undershirt and traveled around his sides to rest for a moment over his back. They did not stay long before slipping back out and making quick work of the rest of the shirt, dragging it down Oswald's arms and tossing it to the floor. In an equally fluid move, he took hold of the bottom of the undershirt and stood up to pull it over Oswald's head. He lingered there for a moment, looking down at Oswald's bare chest, letting his gaze jump from a faint scar he did not recognize to a circular one he certainly did. His eyes were glued to it as he sat back down on the bed.  
  
"You say it," Oswald commanded, his voice nearly a whisper.  
  
Edward felt his brow knit as he swallowed hard, wrapping his arms tightly around Oswald's back and squeezing, pressing the side of his face fully against the ribs before him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Oswald," he said, matching the volume for fear of letting his voice crack.  
  
Oswald stroked his hair twice in gracious victory, soaking in the warmth of the moment. And then it was over, the conversation having tread too close to open emotion, to words conveying messages that bodies alone could do justice.  
  
Ed sucked in a breath as his arms were roughly pried from Oswald's waist and shoved over his head, forcing him to fall back in a single movement. He bounced onto his back and found Oswald climbing over him quickly, stooping to devour the crook of his neck while pulling upward on his shirt, too impatient to unbutton it fully. He shifted easily under Oswald's weight, peeling off the torn, stained shirt and tossing it blindly from the bed.  
  
They sought each other's mouths again, having already spent too long apart. Oswald seemed to melt over him as their chests met, and Edward instantly fell in love with the feeling, the warmth of his small body pouring over him as their hearts beat hard enough for the other to feel. The kiss only broke again when Oswald's hand slipped between them, sliding down until it found something to hold, causing Edward to draw another deep breath at the touch. And then it was obvious, what Edward had wanted all this time, what all his desires, whoever controlled them, had fixated on. He hadn't wanted to dip a toe into this; he'd wanted to dive headlong.  
  
He reached for Oswald, dipping his fingers past an elastic band and gripping with no small force, smiling to himself when Oswald whimpered against his neck. They held each other in mirroring grips for a long moment, almost quiet, almost still, reveling in how quickly they could blow through boundaries when they both put their minds to it.  
  
The second he slackened into Edward's shoulder, Oswald was pushed, rolled over to lie on his back. Ed slid himself down the length of Oswald's body and off the end of the bed, bending in a perfect right angle to unsnap the garter on Oswald's left calf before dragging it and the black sock beneath off in a single slow pull with his teeth. Oswald laughed once in delirious shock and awe, transfixed by Edward's performance. Ed knew better than to repeat the act on Oswald's right leg, so he looked up, gaze searing into hooded blue eyes as he stripped the remaining sock from an angled, pale foot. He held the contact, stared past the feigned coolness of silence and right into the vulnerability just beneath the surface. It quickened his pulse and pulled him up, aligning his mouth with the waistband of Oswald's last remaining garment and sinking his teeth into it, dragging it down fair legs with the help of his fingernails. He used enough force to make sure Oswald's left leg would feel the burn of his scratch for a while; he wasn't sure why. For now, it seemed only to thrill them both, Oswald showing his approval by taking hold of himself and rocking into his own hand, putting on his own little show for Edward while lowering his eyes to Ed's hips, a silent command to get himself on even ground. He took the hint but couldn't be bothered with a striptease; his undressing was matter-of-fact, a simple obstacle to his goal. He thought he saw Oswald's eyes widen when he slipped his boxer briefs down, and the thought made him blush.  
  
Edward returned to the bed, slinking on hands and knees back up to the lips he'd come to crave. He pressed into a rough kiss, their mutual need adding force where once there was caution. It told him what to do, even if he put it off by lowering his hips and grinding their lengths together, drinking in the quiet groans that had increased in frequency. He loved the sound, wanted more of it, and decided to seek it out.  
  
Oswald had laughed to himself, perhaps in disbelief, perhaps in sheer joy, when Ed moved downward again, wasting no time in gripping Oswald firmly enough to drag his tongue up the entirety of his length, an act that felt so primal and libertine that he couldn't help but chuckle himself. Plenty of times he'd been told he had a big mouth; here, he quickly learned to appreciate it in a new light, easily taking all of Oswald in, holding his breath at the contact with the back of his throat, listening, always listening to Oswald coming undone. The roll of his hips, the sight of his fingers clawing into the blankets, the _sound_ of it all spurred Ed on, drove him to hollow his cheeks with the effort, to use his fist when he needed to catch his breath. With a glance upward, he caught sight of Oswald burying a hand in his own hair, holding on for stability, wrecking the style his carefully-applied product had given him. The look of wild black strands falling through his fingers and sweeping over his forehead seemed much more fitting, or at least so said the most coherent thought Edward could muster. He could feel his pulse between his legs, and it distracted him, gnawed at him in demand for more, _more_.  
  
Oswald rocked again, his hipbone grazing Ed's cheek, pulling him out of his trance. He let go of himself again, placed his hands on each of Oswald's hipbones and held him down, pinned him in place to endure another maddening tease of Ed's tongue to his burning skin.  
  
But Oswald was a force of his own, a compact animal of frenetic energy that the world had tried time and again to tame. It had driven him crazy, turned him into what he was, a volatile pressure-cooker of a man, one wrong word away from exploding and marring everyone in his orbit. But that energy could be used for something less destructive, Edward knew; it didn't have to feel like a loss of control if control was just handed over. So Edward did just that: handed himself over in order to have Oswald at his best, or worst, or most.  
  
He gave a gentle nip to Oswald's inner thigh before pushing himself up, turning onto his back, and lying down beside him. They stared up for a moment, the coffered ceiling's gold leaf conducting the energy as it transferred from one to the other, and within a few breaths, Oswald understood. His head rolled to the side and his eyes narrowed, and in turning to meet them, Ed saw the predator he'd been hoping for.  
  
Oswald slid down the bed and lifted Ed's leg, slipping underneath to place himself between two bent knees. His hands started at those peaks, gliding slowly down the length of each thigh and then up his waist, his sides, his ribs, framing the work of a tongue that lapped the length of his torso in a single possessive stripe. He'd closed his eyes halfway through the journey, so Ed did not see that same mouth coming for his own and was caught off guard by the teeth holding his bottom lip so that that tongue could taste him. His jolt of surprise only fueled the flame, earning him a clash of their teeth as Oswald pressed further, tasting himself on Ed's tongue and smiling against his mouth when Ed shuddered in response.  
  
Oswald lowered his head to Ed's chest, but his fingers stayed behind, pushing into his mouth and only pulling away once coated enough to leave a glistening trail of saliva upon their departure. Edward reached to wipe it from his chin but Oswald's other hand grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the bed next to his head. He was meant to be a mess, and it grated a deep-seated nerve. He could sense it would only get worse.  
  
And he couldn't wait.  
  
When the slick fingers entered him, his shoulders curled up off the mattress, a guttural _Oh_ creaking from his throat. Oswald indulged him a only a second before shoving him back down, fully extending his own limbs to collect Edward's wrists and place them over his head, releasing them with a single wag of his finger in Ed's face, a warning against bringing them down. He found it unfair that a man as well-spoken as Oswald should also be so persuasive without any words at all. And he didn't move his hands an inch.  
  
His knees fell further open as his feet pushed down into the bed, just barely lifting his pelvis to seek more of what Oswald was offering. It was a shameless need, a craving that threatened to shred the rest of his dignity. But he was not kept waiting long.  
He hadn't known his eyes were closed until Oswald had sunk into him and they cracked open, rolled up in his head, waiting until he could catch his breath to lower again and lock onto Oswald's face. He was instantly grateful for Oswald's hopelessly expressive features; they could not hide how good he was feeling, as his eyebrows had risen in the center of his forehead, his jaw slackened as he let himself revel in the wonder of a connection that felt so good. _Good_ was hard to come by.  
  
The purity could not last. The pace quickened. Oswald held Edward's knees for stability, then lifted the right one, resting the calf on his shoulder, putting the miles of Edward's legs on full display. He had to admit, even as it made Oswald seem a little smaller, Edward liked the view.  
  
Cool blue eyes roamed the planes and angles of his body, looking everywhere but his face as if making eye contact at this point would dredge something up for which Oswald was not equipped. It was a protective act, this avoidance, so Edward played along, settling his focus on the hands gripping his hips and pulling their bodies together over and over again, setting off sparks in the back of his brain each time he felt Oswald's bones dig into his backside. He watched the fingers turn to hooks and longed to lower his hands to meet them, intertwine his fingers with them and turn them human again, but a louder voice told him to lie back and enjoy what he was given. But his time to lie back was running out.  
  
A groan burst from Oswald, a sound that announced the decline of his self-control and simultaneously wrecked Ed's. He couldn't keep his hands still anymore, and he reached for the ache between his legs. His arm was caught mid-air, though, accompanied by the chill of loss, Oswald withdrawing to give himself room to move: he yanked Ed's arm across his body, directing him in no uncertain terms to flip over.  
  
His hips lifted involuntarily even as his chest sank against the bed, arms weak with what he was coming to recognize as the desire to be used up, bent and manipulated at Oswald's will, because perhaps it was true all along that Oswald knew best. In the furthest corner of his mind, his pride whispered its objection. This voice was drowned out by the one emanating from his own throat, first as a wordless expression of pleasure as Oswald pressed into him again, then as a mindless answer to every inhalation timed perfectly to each pull of Oswald's hips. He could hear their contact now, the force renewed and quickly cranked up to fitting intensity.  
  
Edward pumped himself freely, teeth bared in a wicked smile that only widened when Oswald bent fully over his back, stretching to grab a fistful of his hair, pulling it until Ed pushed himself up onto his free hand, a perfect tabletop position that gave him the leverage to push back. He did so immediately, laughing between groans, terribly amused by two sensations: the thrill of making Oswald cry out, and the fresh streak of saliva that had slipped from his parted lips. He refused to sacrifice the work of either of his hands to wipe it away, so it glistened on his cheek, another badge of degeneracy he wore with pride.  
  
As he had before, Oswald spent much of his time holding Edward's waist with a bruising grip, not easing his pressure until he felt bone beneath his fingertips. But eventually, he grew quiet, his breath short and telling, and he tore the veil from the whole scene.  
  
He lowered again over Edward's back, making as much contact as possible, but his hands softened, slid up Ed's sides and came to rest against his chest in a hold that was as far as one could get from playfully cruel. It was warm and needy, and the sounds he made were high and helpless, his forehead resting tenderly against Edward's shoulder blade in a state of ecstatic vulnerability that sliced through the haze of Ed's delirium and forced him into a vivid realization: this was not just an expulsion of sexual tension. They were engaging in a ritual healing of all the wounds they'd delivered each other: deception, rejection, betrayal. It was a dismissal of parasitic longing, an act of simultaneous apology and forgiveness. By the end, all that survived was the light, and it felt vital to say so, to speak its name and so exorcise the foolish demons that might dare part them again. It made sense that they could not face each other for this. The intensity of looking into each other's faces for such work could have flooded their systems, overdosed them out of existence.  
  
"I do love you, Edward. I always have," Oswald confessed. "I cannot help myself when it comes to you, and honestly, I don't want to," he breathed, his right hand gently moving to take over the work of Ed's.  
  
"Oswald," Edward sighed, stopping to catch his breath as Oswald drove him to the edge of coherence. "I love you," he said, and he repeated it twice more, holding tight to Oswald's hand on his chest as he was crashed into euphoria, an addictive drug rushing through his veins until he simply couldn't stay upright anymore. His eyes fell closed so he could note as much of Oswald's climax as possible: the shallow gasps and cries in which Ed could practically hear those sharp teeth baring.  
  
In the precious silent seconds that followed, they floated in the unfamiliar warmth of acceptance, embraced their magnetic energy and collapsed on the bed together, slowly navigating their ways back to each other until, in a move that left Edward beaming up at the ceiling, Oswald rested his head on Ed's chest. There was no going back now.  
  
Finally.  
  
Edward could sense a new, safer kind of sleep waiting for an invitation to overtake him. He had only a few things to say before welcoming it, so he closed his eyes to speak.  
  
"Thank you, Oswald."  
  
He felt Oswald's cheek twitch against him. "Oh? For what, exactly? Be as precise as possible," he teased.  
  
"For saving me. You did," Ed answered, his sincerity surprising Oswald into a temporary silence.  
  
His fingers stroked Edward's ribs softly. "It was my pleasure."  
  
"Penguin. My hero," Ed sighed, and Oswald chuckled sleepily.  
  
"One more thing," Ed said, voice groggy now, interrupted by a yawn. "Oswald?"  
  
He was patient for an answer; he could still sense the presence of Oswald's consciousness.  
  
"Oswald?" he tried again, more petulantly. Even a grunt would suffice, but he wasn't getting a response. It bothered him, but not enough to open his eyes. "Oswald?"  
  
Darkness. Silence.  
  
"Oswald? I know you're there..." he said, though the uncertainty in his voice surprised him. His mouth opened to say something else, but halted in slowed thought, lips parted in a smile half confused, half tickled at his own exhaustion.  
  
He wanted to run a hand along Oswald's shoulder, comb his fingers through his hair. He realized he was more tired than he'd thought: his arms wouldn't move for him.  
  
Oswald's head grew heavy, pressing into him with a weight that for a moment felt nice, safe. But Edward frowned when it grew oppressive, constricting, drawing up an old ache in his shoulder.  
  
Since he couldn't bring himself to move, he swallowed his guilt at doing so and asked Oswald to shift. Or, he would have, if his jaw would have worked for him.  
  
When his wrists started tingling, a thin shot of adrenaline pulsed through him, convincing him to deny sleep completely and open his eyes.  
  
That didn't work, either.  
  
"Oswald?" he tried, but the name was a muffled mess, caught on the back of his teeth.  
  
"Oh, I'm here, Ed."  
  
With this reply, this clear-as-a-bell response in a voice and tone that could belong to no one but Oswald Cobblepot, the last traces of bliss iced over in his blood, needles filling his hands as his heart suffered a jump-start, pounding, railing against the inside of his chest.  
  
A quick scan of his body found everything where he must have left it: legs bound to a metal chair, hands tied too tightly behind his back, gagged and blinded by rubbery vines. He shook his head at the realization, but he was stopped by a rough grip on his chin.  
  
"Hold still," Oswald commanded before Ed heard the signature click of a familiar switchblade. He tensed in anticipation, all of his attention zeroing in on his left cheekbone so that when the blade caught the far right corner of his jaw, it took seconds for him to even notice.  
  
The blind remained. He worked the stiffness from his jaw and waited. Oswald said nothing.  
  
"Who's here?" Ed asked, rolling his neck as he waited to learn how many people he would have to kill.  
  
"Just me," Oswald answered. Ed could hear the grin in his voice. It made him want to implode. "Ivy called me, oh, two hours ago? She told me they were testing something on you, something to give them access to your deepest desires. It seems they thought you might rattle off some big job you hadn't finished yet, or give them the name of some poor woman they could hunt down and use against you. Thompkins, perhaps. But no such luck."  
  
Ed's teeth ground.  
  
"But they injected you, and you blacked out and started saying an inconvenient name over and over."  
  
"Mmhmm."  
  
"It was mine," Oswald gloated.  
  
"I know."  
  
"You were calling for me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Curiosity often gets the better of me; I know that about myself. For a charitable donation to their research, she offered me the chance to hear what you had to say. So...here I am, Ed."  
  
"Where are they?"  
  
"I offered to buy them a new lab, and wouldn't you know, they suddenly remembered they had prior engagements this afternoon."  
  
"I thought they were bluffing," Edward admitted, though he wasn't sure why.  
  
Oswald snorted.  
  
"Oh, no, no. They are working in earnest, taking impressive strides."  
  
"And now you're funding them?"  
  
"Let's not pretend that matters, Ed."  
  
Edward swallowed, ran his tongue along his teeth.  
  
"I don't suppose I said anything else."  
  
Oswald hummed in jubilant consideration. "Let me think..."  
  
Edward had always had an impressive memory. Now, it was downright photographic. Of course it had felt so real: he'd been speaking aloud the entire time.  
  
"What's the...what's the first thing you heard?"  
  
Oswald clicked his tongue in thought. "Oh, by the time I arrived, I think you were telling someone how awful you looked. Not that I agreed, of course. I quite like this rough-and-tumble meets damoiseau-in-distress."  
  
"So. You'll use this to destroy me. Let me guess, you've filmed everything and you'll blackmail me into working for you or...or you'll just publish it and let the city tear me apart. What'll it be?"  
  
Oswald was quiet. It unsettled Edward further.  
  
"I did not. Film you, that is. I've been where you are. Or, it seems, a much, much worse version of it. You forget, I've experienced Crane's work firsthand, back when he was far more impressionable and desperate for approval."  
  
When Edward had no response, Oswald sighed and stepped around to the back of the chair. He grabbed the vines at Edward's wrists directly, and the burn licked up Ed's forearms, drawing a shuddering whimper from him. The knife sliced through them easily, and Ed rolled his shoulders at the release. He reached to uncover his eyes, hands stopping mid-air at his chest when Oswald's fingers slipped carefully between the vine and his temple.  
  
"You have me in an interesting position," Oswald said as the cool blade slid against the side of Ed's face. "I have many questions."  
  
"We have that in common."  
  
Oswald laughed, but when he continued, his voice had softened, grown both closer and gentler. The mask had slipped.  
  
"One in particular is really...really eating away at me, Edward."  
  
Ed turned his head toward Oswald's voice, resisting the temptation to reach his hands out and find his face. He was powerless in the dark, and curiosity had a hold on him, too.  
  
"Yes?" he asked in an accidental whisper.  
  
The blade sliced carefully through the blind, and it fell from his face, offering just as much relief as he'd imagined. But he could not bring himself to open his eyes, to face the looming disaster just yet.  
  
"Did it work? Is all that...is that what you want, deep down?"  
  
Edward did not answer, but nor did he turn away.  
  
"Because," Oswald went on, speaking even more softly. "It's possible that Crane got carried away, that maybe you were experiencing your deepest fear. Who knows what could have--"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"No, Oswald," Ed corrected, rubbing his closed eyes with the heels of his hands, lost for the man's motives, uncertain of the right move to make here. It was true that everything in Gotham was part of someone else's game, but he was too exhausted to play. So he muttered a heartless prayer and went with the truth.  
  
"What those monsters created," he sighed with resignation. "It worked."  
  
There was supposed to be a maniacal laugh, a verbal slap in the face as Oswald claimed the ultimate victory in the battle between them that even bullets hadn't been strong enough to end. There was a shoe still to drop, a fate worse than death that had already been cooked up for him, its service a promise of humiliation and grief. This was where he heard the sentencing for his arrogance, for never stopping to think that he could be undone by an unstable chemist and an anthropomorphized Venus fly trap. It served him right.  
  
So he couldn't help but gasp when Oswald's hands took a tender hold of his face and tilted it upward, bringing their lips together in a clumsy first kiss that they could not keep up for want of smiling.  
  
Oswald pulled away to cut the ties around his legs, freeing him completely, and Edward finally opened his eyes. At the sight of Oswald's face, the blush that he couldn't keep hidden beneath his high collar, Edward felt himself exhale for what felt like the first time in years. He stood, tentatively testing his legs, pleased to find them just barely sore from struggle.  
  
When finally their eyes met, their smiles fell to honor the gravity of this moment. Life had been breathed into a long-dead force, and to help it to its feet, they reached for each other and sank into a heavy, eager kiss.  
  
And this time they got it right.


End file.
